


Hearsay

by Lios



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lios/pseuds/Lios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She overhears them talking about it as they stand in a broken line outside of the dungeons in little gangs, divided already by rapidly formed friendships. They say that he was once in The War but she doesn’t believe it. She’s good at counting and she learned all about The War in year three. Headmaster Potter may be the oldest teacher she’s ever seen but even he can’t have been alive a hundred years ago. People just don’t live that long. Magic stuff or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hearsay

She overhears them talking about it as they stand in a broken line outside of the dungeons in little gangs, divided already by rapidly formed friendships. She looks at the tips of her shoes (which are somehow already scruffy) and frowns, concentrating hard on their whispering voices. Their words are dripping in an awe and respect that she doesn’t quite understand so she dismisses that part as girls being stupid and giggly over boys. They say that he was once in The War but she doesn’t believe it. She’s good at counting and she learned all about The War in year three. Headmaster Potter may be the oldest teacher she’s ever seen but even he can’t have been alive a hundred years ago. People just don’t live that long. Magic stuff or not.

She doesn’t tell them this although she has to hum to keep herself from saying the words aloud. She doesn’t talk to them at all because she knows the expressions on their faces when they look at her. She’s seen it before in schools and sports clubs and even with other kids out on the street. She knows she is Different. She always has been. The only difference now is that here she doesn’t have her own gang, her kind-of brothers and sisters. Here she is alone.

She wanders around at night time, exploring the place that is supposed to be home. It’s not that she intentionally breaks the curfew but more that she forgets it exists, making an art out of slipping from her bed and creeping silently out of the dormitory. She’s several corridors away before she realises she’s cold. She shivers a little before telling herself to stop doing so, continuing to wander throughout the castle. She pauses to marvel at some of the portraits, curiously stroking ornate frames and laughing softly at the sleeping faces. It is the very first time in her weeks of habitude that she recognises that the place is pretty and old and full of interesting passageways and statues that mark years of existence and life.

When she bumps into him it is a shock that sends her crashing to the floor with a yelp. She looks up, rubbing her forehead with a wince. When she spots him, she freezes in panic. She sits and waits for him to scold her or suggest some dramatic forest detention where she’ll have to fight trolls and spiders and unicorns for her life. His confused expression turns into a smile when his eyes meet hers.

“You’ll catch a chill if you stay down there much longer.”

His voice doesn’t sound quite the same as it did at the opening feast where he had welcomed them loudly. This time it’s quiet and gentle and not at all like the voice of a soldier. She pushes herself up on her hands and stands, brushing dust off her bright pink skirt that is technically miles away from the expected dress code.

“I assume you are aware that you are not supposed to wander the corridors at night?” he asks, still smiling. She shrugs in response, years of experience having taught her that an outright lie is more dangerous than an admission of guilt. The Headmaster snorts at her action, folding his arms across his chest.

“What brings you out of your bed tonight?”

She looks at him, peering curiously at his forehead. It’s the closest she’s ever been to him and as she stares at him she thinks she can see strange skin hiding beneath his fringe. She cocks her head to one side, noting with disappointment that the change in angle does not improve her view. A few seconds of silence pass and he clears his throat, earning a shrug from her. “I like to walk around.”

His brows rise. “You can do that during the day too and you wouldn’t be in trouble.”

Her shoulders move upwards again and she ignores the familiar voice in her head that reprimands her for doing so. “There’s kids everywhere then. It’s very noisy and people look at you funny.”

“I understand how that may be so. However, the castle can be a dangerous place. I’m sure you are aware it is full of magic, it’s not safe for anyone to wander alone when no one knows where they’re gone. Especially at night time.”

She doesn’t point out that he too is alone because she is clever and doesn’t _really_ want to have a detention if she can still avoid it. She smiles at him sweetly in the way that always worked on the men at home, using the innocent face that she had practiced many times in front of the bathroom mirror. 

Headmaster Potter rolled his eyes but continued smiling. “I’m afraid it’ll be fifty points from Slytherin.”

She pretends to wince at the punishment, secretly delighted. Houses and points are the concerns of her classmates. They’re confusing notions which mean nothing to her, effort and hardship experienced for no obvious reward. She has no interest in some symbolic cup and even struggles to remember one or two of the funny made-up names given to the different houses.

“Ok,” she replies solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are indeed. Come along, I will walk you back to the dorm.”

She rushes to catch up as his long legs carry him away much faster than she can walk. After a minute he seems to realise this, slowing down enough to allow her to skip alongside him. She hums quietly, internally celebrating the apparent lack of punishment. They’re several corridors away from their original spot before she speaks again, talking without really thinking.  

“They say that you were in The War.”

She doesn’t notice him stop until she is at least six feet ahead of him. She halts, waiting patiently for him to catch up.

“And who would _they_ be?”

“The girls. In my classes. They talk about you a lot.”

“I see.”

They start moving through the castle again, heading for the cool dormitory located in its dungeons. “I know it’s not true,” she says, staring at the portraits they pass.

“Is that so?”

“Uh huh. Bobby and me, we did a project on The War in year three. I know a lot about it, ‘specially all of the planes and tanks ‘cause they’re kinda cool. We did lots of research and we talked to Mary ‘cause her granddad was there when he was really young and his brother died too. They blew him up in this big ship and his family didn’t know for months that he was dead.”

“That sounds terribly sad.”

“Mary said it’s ok ‘cause it was a long time ago. She’s very old and that all happened before she was born. Before you were born too, right?”

“That’s right. World War Two was in fact a long time ago and you’re correct, I wasn’t born then. But I’m afraid the War your classmates discussed was not that conflict but indeed a much more recent one.”

It is her turn to pause, forcing him to spin and look at her. There’s a strange expression on his face, one that she doesn’t understand. She thinks for the first time that maybe he did fight in a war and that maybe he is sad about it. She remembers Mary’s photographs of little black and white boys holding hands and smiling and wonders if Headmaster Potter has similar pictures hidden away somewhere safe.

“I didn’t learn about any more wars in school.”

“No, I don’t imagine you did. The war we speak of was not fought with guns and bombs and planes. It was one of magic.”

“Was it a bad one?”

“All wars are bad, in their own ways. There are many books in our library on it. I’m sure they could tell you more about it than I ever could.”

“That’s ok. I don’t really like books.”

He smiles as if she has told him the funniest joke she knows. “Why is that?”

She thinks of long evenings spent at the kitchen table with Alice, tracing letters in extra workbooks that no one else ever had to have. She recalls tears and tantrums and books torn to shreds in anger and sadness. “I don’t read very well,” she says slowly, choosing the words with great care. “All of the letters like to mix themselves up and make it hard to understand the stories.”

Her mind wanders into dangerous territories then; to books read to her by Sam at bedtime, to hot chocolate to settle hyperactive minds, to vegetables that just _must_ be eaten and to warm hugs and soft kisses. By the time they reach the entrance to the dungeons, tears have gathered themselves in her eyes.

She jumps when the hand of the Headmaster lands gently on her shoulder, guiding her body around to look back him. She sniffs, rubbing at her eyes self-consciously. Fingers leaving her shoulder, he moves to kneel in front of her. She winces a little at the sight, wondering if his old bones will ever lift him up off the floor again. She says as much and he shakes with laughter, his head craned at an angle to look directly into her eyes.

“It’s ok to miss home, you know,” he murmurs, talking as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Most students do, _many times_ during their years here. I’m usually more worried about those who don’t. That often means they don’t have a very nice home to go back to when the academic year finishes.”

She nods, thinking of Sam and Alice and Mary and Bobby and Alex and all of the children who come and go. She considers Bobby’s excitement on her behalf, the elegant letter pinned to her room’s notice board that promises adventure and magic and a new and better life. She nods again and laughs, accepting the tissue that Headmaster Potter forms in midair with an almost invisible wand movement.

“It’s hard to be away from home,” says the Headmaster. “But in a way, Hogwarts is your home too. You belong here, and no one should ever let you feel as if you don’t.”

He stands up in the time it takes her to blink, surprising her with the smooth movement. He wishes her goodnight, pushing her gently by the shoulders closer to the entrance and walking away. She listens to his footsteps echo on the stone floor and watches as the eyes of the dungeon’s portrait guardian snap instantly open as the sound fades in the distance. The painted figure eyes her with suspicion and lets out an exasperated sigh. She doesn’t give the password as she knows it will not make him open the passageway any sooner than he intends to on his own agenda. She’s heard rumours about him to, but those are far more negative in nature than those that surround Headmaster Potter.

“Potter once again demonstrating how ill-suited he is to the job,” the wizard mutters, perched regally on an ornate chair. “Long gone are my days of relishing the screams from the deepest dankest dungeons as the students hung by their toe nails.”

“Did that _really_ happen?”

A gleam appears in his eye which, she thinks, is highly impressive considering he is just a painting after all. “Of course it did. What do you take me for? I would never let any lesser punishment occur under my rule.”

She suspects that he is lying but she doesn’t say so, aware that she still has need of him and that he can make her life very difficult yet. She smiles. “Can you let me in please?”

He rolls his eyes in response. “Don’t let this happen again, Dolohov. Potter may not wish to punish you, but I have no such qualms. I still have a lot of power in this castle. You don’t want to cross me.”

She manages to hold onto her giggle until after she enters the common room, a smile blooming across her face.   

**Author's Note:**

> Head canon that Harry becomes a teacher eventually. He'll just never be an auror to me.
> 
> I spend most of my Harry Potter thinking time pondering about what would become of all of the relatives and children of those who lost the wizarding war. Children are just children but many humans do have a tendency to persecute for the sins of fathers.


End file.
